MMXIV
A NARRATIVE NON-FICTION MAGAZINE A SPECIAL PUBLICATION OF THE ITHACAN
Lit spring 2014
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
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MASTHEAD EDITOR’S NOTE I. ON THE COUCH 6 II. A NEW TAKE ON THE PAST 10 III. SOUNDS FROM UNDERGOUND 14 VI. HOW THE MIGHTY HAVEN’T FALLEN 18 V. A COLLEGE STUDENT WALKS INTO A BAR 22 VI. IN WOD WE TRUST 26 Lit
spring 2014
Lit
MAST HEAD
STAFF ALLIE HEALY / CO-EDITOR KRISTEN TOMKOWID / CO-EDITOR MARIANNA DUNBROOK/ DESIGN EDITOR TUCKER MITCHELL / Photo EDITOR KIRA MADDOX / PROOFREADER VICKY WOLAK / CHIEF Copy Editor CHRISTIE CITRANGLO / COPY EDITOR BEN GAYNOR / COPY EDITOR Kaitlyn matrassi / copy editor bethany rock / copy editor MEGAN DEVLIN / ITHACAN EDITOR IN CHIEF Michael Serino / Ithacan Adviser
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EDITOR’S NOTE
In our first Narrative Journalism class this semester, our professor Todd Schack had us read a piece by Nick Tosches about sushi. Tosches explored the Japanese fish market and vividly illustrated his surroundings for his readers’ sake. Unbeknownst to him, we would be those readers, and we would never be able to look at a California roll the same way ever again. Other than teaching us the dirty secrets of the raw fish exchange, Tosches taught us how to take an otherwise ordinary occurrence and explicitly detail the events for an audience — only to make it extraordinary. Throughout the school year, the students of the narrative workshop engaged with communities near and far to bring stories of pre-existing cultures to life in these following pages. Whether it be sitting naked on a couch with a stranger in Montreal or knocking elbows in a crowd to the rebel yells of Perfect Pussy, the writers did what was necessary to accurately depict the beautiful oddities of our society. We don’t care if you like it, we are only the messengers.
Allie Healy & Kristen Tomkowid
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spring 2014
ON THE COUCH PART I - MONTREAL Splayed on the black leather couch next to me, hairy legs agape, Mike pulls gently on his penis. “If you could change one thing about your body, what would it be?” he asks in his soft, smoker’s baritone. Glancing down at my naked body, I take a moment to evaluate myself. My skin is paler than Mike’s — skim milk to his leathery cider — and prefers light wisps of hair to the bristles occupying his abdomen. My own penis remains plastered to my inner thigh like a crayon melted on a hot dashboard. “Fat goes straight to my gut,” I offer. “What about you?” “I wish my hair was more like yours,” he says, nodding at my mostly naked sternum. “Yeah, it’s nice.” We sip our beers and Mike’s attention diverts back to the expansive screen in front of us. “So how do you feel being naked?Days earlier I received a message on Couchsurfing.com:
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Hello Lewis! You are welcome in my house when you will be
WRITTEN BY LEWIS KENDALL ART BY JON YOSKIN
in Montreal. I like to drink beer and wine, rum or tequila so I’m sure we can have a few drinks together! As you probably saw in my profile, I am a naturist so my home is obviously clothes-free. I hope nudity is not an issue for you? (obviously this is non-sexual and respectful nudism). Mike The blinds are drawn, but Christmas lights twinkle invitingly over the doorframe of the house. I half-expect my host to answer in the nude and wonder if I should have left my clothes in the car. The man who opens the door is clothed in acid-wash jeans, a white shirt and a designer baseball cap. Mike greets me with a gentle handshake and invites me inside to where two other men are seated, also clothed, on the couch (I discover later the two, both named Alex, are Mike’s friends and are not comfortable with nudity, the only reason the head of the house remains covered). The living room walls are lined with photographs from Romania and Mexico. Magnets from Barcelona, Cali-
ON THE COUCH fornia, Paris, San Miguel and Italy pose neatly on the fridge. A massive glass jug filled with wine corks sits on the floor next to a tall case displaying clay pots and sculptures of contorted, exotic figures. The downstairs opens to a low room with a pair of fridges in the corner. “Cerveza?” the 39-year-old hands me a beer. “Help yourself to anything in this fridge and let me know if you want any liquor.” I unpack and walk back upstairs to the kitchen where Mike is putting the finishing touches on pasta carbonara. “The first time I did it was in Paris, and that was a couple years ago,” he says of couchsurfing. “I’ve surfed in South America, Spain and a few times in the U.S. and Canada.” He scratches at the perfectly trimmed patch of hair on his chin. “But I love to host. It’s like travelling without leaving your own home.” Once, he says, he hosted nine people. The house only sleeps four, so the others had to use the floor. “We got really drunk that night.” As he offers me another beer, he dives into Canadian politics and the incumbent separatist government. “In the U.S., you talk about being a melting pot, but here we want to be more of a quilt,” he says. “Did you know that 25 percent of songs on the radio have to be Canadian? And all the road signs and menus have to be in French?” As we clear the table, Mike, who I learn makes his money in the video game industry, cleans the dishes before placing them in the dishwasher. The entire house mirrors the antiseptic kitchen. In the bathroom, a bar of soap perches on an immaculate dish as though newly replaced by hotel housekeeping. In my room, accentuated by framed photos of New Orleans and San Francisco, a set of drawers holds a half dozen neatly folded olive-green towels. He pads around the house with the delicate deliberation of a doe. As he sits, he folds both legs neatly in the lotus position. The four of us drink beer and watch TV before the Alexes decide to go downtown. When the door closes behind them, Mike gets up from the couch and slips into the other room, returning moments later naked as a newborn. “So if you want to go ahead and get naked, you can.” “Sure. OK. Yeah. I’ll be right back.” In my room, I take a moment of self-reflection, literally, staring at my naked body in the mirror as I sit on the end of my bed. Beads of sweat tickle my ribs as they roll down my sides. After a few deep breaths, I grab one of the towels, which Mike has instructed me to place wherever I sit, and head upstairs.
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“So how do you feel being naked?” It is not as liberating as I had hoped. I feel antsy and uncomfortable. Sweat continues to pour from my underarms and, unblocked by clothes, I am profoundly aware of every part of my body, from my shoulder blades sticking to the warm leather to the cold beer resting on my thigh. Though his movements are deliberate as ever, Mike’s posture is open: legs spread, chest back and palms up, occasionally moving to rub his face. “Being naked feels like you’re on an even playing field with everyone,” he says, tribal tattoos undulating as he moves his arms. “Only three surfers out of probably hundreds have backed out.” “Have you ever had any bad experiences?” I ask, focusing on my beer label. “Not really, no. The one neutral review I had to give was because of a no-show. A lot of people are skeptical about being naked, asking if they can keep their socks on or what to do if they get a boner, but once they take their clothes off, they love it.” “What about girls?” “I’ve hosted two girls by themselves and a few more in groups. Americans have trouble separating nudity and sex, but international surfers are usually accepting. It’s part of why I love hosting.”
being naked feels like you’re on an even playing field with everyone.
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In the distance, the curved spine of the Olympic stadium rises from the city, and behind it the metal exoskeleton of a Six Flags amusement park. The St. Lawrence River snakes its way past the city, a few cargo ships dotting its frothy surface. Mike points out the old and new ports, the Molson brewery that sticks out like a brick matchbox from the business district and the Notre Dame basilica, a replica of the French original and a tribute to the city’s Catholic roots. The wind whips, gnawing through jackets and skin, and despite Mike’s thick hat and scarf, his watery eyes betray his cold. We stand, now clothed, on the edge of Mount Royal, the hill overlooking the city. In the distance, I see hazy mounds that Mike identifies as the Green Mountain range in Vermont. A string of saliva escapes my numbed lips, and we hurry to the comfort of Mike’s BMW. Following a naked breakfast of eggs and bagels, Mike offered to take me downtown. After picking up some cooking spices for his widowed mother, we drove through the city with Mike playing tour guide, pointing out sites like the publicly owned Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, “The Village” — the city’s gay neighborhood — and the occasional Super Sexe strip club. The speeches are well-oiled, but his guard drops occasionally. “Sorry, I almost killed you,” he says laughing after he
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spring 2014
ON THE COUCH narrowly avoids a bundled pedestrian. “So are you ready to try poutine?” PART II - ITHACA Leaning forward on the brand new black and grey linen couch, Takashi pauses the TEDTalk and scribbles down another note. “My English is only 50 percent of the time. This is how I try to learn,” he says, indicating the English and Japanese subtitles. He speaks quickly despite uncertainty, chopping his hands rhythmically. The U.S. is one of his final stops on a 10-month journey that spanned India, the Middle East and South America. He tells me that after Ithaca, he plans to head up to Syracuse, N.Y., and coachsurf there. “I never have bad experience,” he says of couchsurfing. The house that we currently share belongs to a dean at Cornell University, his wife and five children, three of whom are adopted from China. The building itself is a century-old behemoth, all varnished wood and iron fixtures. A functional elevator runs three floors. In the front room, a guitar and several saxophone cases are stacked against the wall. Strategy games, “Risk” and “Settlers of Catan” line the shelves. When I arrive that late fall night, it’s Caleb, the one biological son, who greets me with well-drilled courtesy. The teen tells me his mother will be home soon, offers me drinks and gives me a tour of the house. We end up downstairs where he clicks away on his computer while listening to a podcast on the French Revolution. We sit in an old screen porch converted into a living room. Several of the walls are rough stone, and the floors match the slick hardwood that makes up most of the house. The two couches face a large television, in front of which sits a small girl, about 10 years old, with long black hair and glasses, cradling a video game controller. Another young girl, who introduces herself as Amelia, who is around 14, emerges from upstairs, offering us all tea in delicate china. She speaks in a high-pitched voice, so soft I can hear the sound of her tongue as it pats her lips and the roof of her mouth. She moves to her sister and places the cup gently next to her, “milk and sugar, just the way you like it.” “Thanks,” the gamer, Sam, replies. “So I got into the Muay Thai class that I’ve been talking about,” Amelia continues. “That’s really cool,” Sam says, diverting her eyes from the screen momentarily. As Amelia is about to continue, another body bursts in the room, carrying a computer and plops down on the couch beside me. The 8-year-old boy is closely followed by his mother, Kelly. “Hi Lewis! It’s great to meet you. Sorry I’m running late, I had to pick up this guy from gymnastics,” she says, indicating the boy. “So I’m going to get dinner started, are you OK with tuna steaks? After we eat, I can set up your
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room and make sure you’re comfortable up there.” I ask her if she needs any help with dinner, but she refuses, only allowing me to help the kids set the table. Moments later, Kelly’s husband arrives. He wears his graying hair combed and parted neatly around a soft face. He introduces himself as Mark and welcomes me before moving to the kitchen to greet his wife. “Did you know there’s no Jujitsu class on Tuesdays?” I hear him say. “Oh really? So what did you do?” “I did grappling instead. It was a really good workout. So we’re having fish? We should do some wine with dinner then. Caleb, my dear son, would you be so kind and grab a bottle of wine from the cellar? Preferably an Italian white?” It’s past 8 p.m. before all eight of us, plus Mark’s friend and bandmate Ted, are seated around the table in the dining room. Kelly pours wine for the table, including Sam, who can’t be older than 14. Dishes of roasted potatoes, green beans and meat are passed methodically, left to right with practiced politeness. Conversation turns to Mark’s work with the university. “It lets me travel, which is good. But when I do go places, I have go to all these cocktail parties, and I hate cocktail parties.” His nasally laugh fills the room. “But the travel is nice. We just spent a year living in Switzerland and made it our goal to go to 15 different countries, so we went to France, Italy, Germany … Help me out guys.” “England, Ireland, Scotland, Morocco, Spain…” The kids pipe up. “Right, right. And we only couchsurfed once. Because we’re six, it’s hard to take all of us. But we decided to start doing it here because we have the space.” “We’ve only had a couple people so far,” Kelly adds. “A lot of the international travelers don’t understand the difference between New York City and New York state, so we have to tell them that we’re really far from the city. But it’s been very interesting to meet people like Takashi!” While the kids clear the table and team up to wash and dry the dishes, I sit with Kelly and Mark. “The kids were clearly treated poorly in the orphanage,” she says of her three adopted children. “We’re pretty sure Mark was hit. It’s taken a long time for them to open up to us and trust us, and even now he still has trouble,” she says, pointing to her son. “Yeah, it’s been hard. Especially as far as travel goes, we’re pretty burnt out. I don’t think we’re going to go anywhere for a while,” Mark says. “We’re in a good place. We’re renovating the kitchen; we just did the floors in here. And we still have room to open our home and give a little more.” PART III - MANHATTAN The elevator dings in midtown Manhattan, and I step into the hallway where a man is waiting. He beams, eyes disappearing into his smile.
ON THE COUCH “Lewis! Welcome, welcome. It’s great to meet you! I’m Gary. So, you found the place alright?” He walks stiffly to the door at the end of the hallway, on which is stuck an “I Was Saved ’00” sticker. The apartment is small but extremely tidy. To the left of the entrance is a kitchenette, barren of food. Three brown couches horseshoe a wall-sized television, beside which a glass door opens to a small balcony. A tiny bathroom emerges down the hall, complete with a shower curtain displaying a world map and a wall calendar of Christian quotes, the only mark on which is on the first of the month where the word “Razor” is etched in red marker. The cabinets are lined with dozens of gels, sprays, soaps and shampoos, as well as several sponges and neatly folded towels. “Whenever people stay here, I get them to point out on the map where they’re from,” Gary says, glasses flashing in the light. “They usually love it. I’ve had people from Algeria, Iran, Australia, Asia, Denmark, Lithuania, everywhere!” We shuffle into the bedroom, where he explains he does work for an accounting firm. Gary shows me the table where he has organized oranges, bananas, bottles of water and a bag of chocolates. “This is for you. Feel free to take whatever you want. There’s also a few snacks in the kitchen, so help yourself to whatever you find and so forth.” He leads me out to the balcony. From the 30th floor, the view extends for miles. To the east, Central Park erupts like a weed sprouting between cracks in the sidewalk. The East River is barely visible, lights from the surrounding buildings reflect glassily off its surface. The day has been warm, but the late November night air is tinged with impending cold. We retreat inside. As he lowers himself into one of the recliners, he lets out a series of groans. “I’m not a cold weather person. I used to be able to go out and be fine, but it affects me so much more than it used to. One of my couchsurfing friends is from Qatar, and he told me that I should come there and stay with him and his family in January. I got a friend that works with Delta [Airlines], and he got me a really good deal on a flight, and I know the weather would be nice, but I’m still dragging my feet about it.” “Do you not like to travel that much?” I ask. “No, I’m not a huge travel guy, but I have couchsurfed a few times and so forth.” He explains that he got into hosting after putting his apartment up on Airbnb, a popular online rental program, to make some extra money. “I really didn’t get many hits on that, but from looking through the website, I found out about couchsurfing and thought, even though that wouldn’t make me money, it would be a good way to share my space and so forth. I got my first request about a week after I made my profile, and now I get requests pretty much every day.” He reclines in the chair, caramel hands clasped over his surprisingly round
stomach, coughing sporadically. A PlayStation, which Gary says he only plays with surfers, sits next to the TV, controllers and games stacked neatly alongside it. Various chargers sprout from outlets, all labeled with a clear “Gary.” An electronic keyboard stands in one corner, covered in hymnal sheet music. The shelf holds books with titles like “A True Likeness.” “I had a Polish guy come here a couple weeks ago, and we hit it off right away, so now I’m reading a book on Poland,” Gary says. Every surfer he mentions is either now a “friend for life” or at least a “close connection.” He tells me the story of an Iranian man who originally wanted to stay two days, but by the end of his visit, Gary insisted that he stay longer. “To be honest, I was a little scared,” Gary says. “But we really made a connection. It was a real cultural exchange, and we had some great conversations. I learned a lot from him.” A few weeks later, Gary’s phone rang. It was the Iranian man, calling from his home to check in on Gary. “It was great because I knew how difficult it was to make that call. It meant a lot to me.” He continues talking, referring to the time he got a review so touching that it made him tear up. Every so often while we talk, his phone vibrates with a message from a surfer-turned-friend. “My only rule is no single women,” he says, coughing slightly. “I’m fine with two women, but being a single man, I don’t think it’s appropriate to have one woman here and so forth.” He groans again and gets up slowly, reaching for a map from the bookshelf behind him. He sits down next to me, patting me gently on the shoulder. “Are you familiar with the layout of the city?” I shake my head. “Well, I’ll go over it then. And let me know if I forget anything or if you have any questions. You can always send me a text, too.” Before leaving in the morning, Gary explains the best way to get on the subway and hands me a printed sheet of breakfast places, complete with scrawled notes like “great strawberry French toast!” “I have to go to work, I help take care of a woman who, believe it or not, is 99 years old. But I’m going to give you this.” He hands me a key attached to a metal clip. “Most hosts in the city don’t do this. They make you come and go with them, but I give a key to people I trust.” “Of course, no problem,” I say. “Great. And again, if there is anything else you need or ever get into trouble and so forth, just call me or text me, and I’ll help you out.” I go to shake his hand, but he reaches out and pulls me into a hug. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lewis. I really enjoyed learning from you.” And with that he leaves me sitting alone on the couch.
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spring 2014
A NEW TAKE ON THE PAST
WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY KRISTEN TOMKOWID “We don’t want to hurt anyone; we just want to kill them.” Vrouw Lijsbet de Kuekere’s words ring true as dozens of middle-aged men in armor beat one another with rattan covered swords. Smack! Clang! Clang! Yes. The heavy weapons tourney at the Annual Festival for the Passing of the Ice Dragon draws dozens of lords and a handful of ladies from all over The Kingdom to participate. Wielding swords and shields — or the occasional katana or spear — fighters enter the roped off lists that cover half of the floor. Only victors emerge in the end, leaving the dead behind to fight another battle until either they, too, become victorious or are sliced to death two more times. A bear pit style tournament. “62 beat 41,” one fighter with the number 62 duct taped to his helmet says to the Mistress of Lists and then returns to the queue to kill again. The smacks of plastic on metal echo off the brick walls and glass ceiling of the armory, interrupting menial conversations by onlookers about garb and gossip. A
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25-foot-wide American flag hangs above the fighters, and every state flag is displayed off the second floor balcony below. But around the staircase banisters, on tables, walls and even stuck to the ropes of the lists are green and black flags of various sizes for The Barony of the Rhydderich Hael, or Buffalo, N.Y., as it is known in the mundane world. Lined along the brick walls of the first floor are dozens of merchants: soap makers, leatherworkers, fiber farmers, jewelers and garb makers. The Society for Creative Anachronism has something for everyone. There are brewers, shoemakers, educators, fencers, archers, jousters, weapons throwers and those who create the events. Those who wish to take part in the society transform themselves into made-up personas, and can do anything pre-17th century from the known world. The extent people go to for an accurate re-creation varies. Some are like lifer Muirenn ingen ui Muirchertaig, who can’t be seen at events without her charcoal eyeliner, replica 15th century glasses and a veil on her head. She won’t even cut her long, brunette hair because it wouldn’t fit her persona: a farmer’s wife. Others, though, aren’t as committed, as seen by
A NEW TAKE ON THE PAST the sneakers and sweatpants hidden under armor. “Oyez!” Everything stops. King Timothy of Arindale, Queen Gabrielle van Nijenrode, Prince Magnus Tindal and Princess Etain ingen Dalaig approach a list. The court of the king and queen begins again. The herald calls forth Gwydeon Ap Arden, a muscular, balding lord as intimidating as a bodyguard, and all Order of the Gage members present. Gwydeon kneels before their Majesties, head bowed, while the herald reads off the scroll, handmade specifically to award his merit for heavy fencing. Many onlooking SCAdians have their cameras and phones at the ready to capture the moment. These awards are always a surprise, as seen by the tears Gwydeon tries to hold back as he arises to hug their Majesties and the rest of the Order. But some other awards are planned out, like Jennet the Gentle’s Pelican for service to the kingdom. All awards, though, whether for fighting, service or arts and sciences, are given at the recommendation of their peers — a sentiment that can make even a grown man cry. The parking lot outside of The United Methodist Church in Rochester is only half full. It is 9 a.m., and classes don’t start until 10. I walk through the glass doors of the building, check in at the troll booth, pay my sitefee and $5 non-member fee and am then directed to the bathroom to change. I quickly slide on my maroon, Forever 21 dress and exit, averting my gaze so as not to catch the sight of the older women changing. People are scattered throughout the main hall, eating pastries and drinking coffee and tea from their goblets. I leave my craft-store basket against a wall with many others. No one will steal here. Marguerite De Neufchasteau taught my first class on how to make rose petal jam. She walks the class through the handout and takes questions before bringing out a jar and some bread. The pink spread tastes sweet, almost fruity. It was her great-grandmother’s recipe, found in her journal. As the day presses on, more people arrive. When the dayboard gets put out in the main hall, there are more people than chairs to sit and eat at, forcing some to stand. Aside from the crudites, everything from soup to cookies has a vegetarian option and a meat option such as bacon cookies. Mott’s apple juice washes everything down. A few stalls are set up in the hall, one belonging to the Happy Pollack soap maker, Henryk Bogusz. A fur hat atop his head, Henryk introduces himself with a kiss on my hand. He first heard of the society in the mid-70s — nearly a decade after it formed in a Berkeley, California backyard — in Dragon Magazine. Like Muirenn said, everyone here has played Dungeons and Dragons at some point in his or her life.
But Henryk didn’t join until many years later. In those 35 years, the SCA had grown to 60,000 participants in five continents. Now, he is a janitor by day and a craftsman and rapier fencer in his spare time. I buy a green leather hair barrette from him and depart. “Maybe I’ll see you at Ice Dragon.” And onto the How to Fake a Cordial, a class on how to get around New York’s distillery laws and still get a similar product. Just another read through of a handout, so the class quickly becomes distracted. “Seven Deadlies was so tame this year,” Justin, the Soap Pimp, says to the woman sitting next to him. “Oh, really? That’s a shame.” In previous years, the event had more of a focus on the sins of sloth and lust, having kissing booths and more drinking. Justin chuckles and turns to me. “We have a little joke here,” he says, smirking behind his glasses, “The SCA acronym really means the Society for Consenting Adults.” “I love my children. My kids are f------ awesome, but do you know how much they suck out of your body?” Dora says while sipping a can of straw-burry-rita mixed with vodka. Her husband next to her, staring intently at the fire. “He hasn’t had a drink since October.” And here it is, mid-March. He doesn’t seem as proud of that fact as she is. The Tournament of the White Hart is their first experience with the SCA. A nice break from their five kids, even if she can’t stop complaining about them. Despite wearing a long, dark dress and shawl in front of a roaring bonfire in West Virginia, Dora still whines of the cold. “You know how people say fat keeps you warm? Well that is a lie. It just keeps the cold inside you more.” It’s odd because I, maybe 40 pounds lighter in a long skirt and belly shirt, am quite toasty. Maybe I drank more, or maybe I’m warm from the dancing. Sordid, the lady who sold me my garb, is also by the fire. “Still want to learn how to belly dance?” Her friend, Anmorina, takes up the hand drum and begins a rhythm of fast-paced beats. It’s all in the hips, swaying them back and forth, making my skirt brush against my legs. Gyrate while rotating in a circle. Pop one hip at a time. Add some snake arms or accentuate the hip motion with corresponding hand motions. Sordid makes it look easy, moving just her hips; a pro among pros around the fire — and then there’s me. I take a seat on the cement that encircles the pit. “Don’t like dancing in the light in front of people either?” one lady, Svava, asks. “Nah, I’m too awkward.” “C’mon, let’s go on that flat land up there.”
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A NEW TAKE ON THE PAST “You know how to belly dance?” I ask skeptically. She’s dressed in a dark, long sleeve shirt and matching pants. Nothing shiny or shimmery like the other dancers in the circle. “Yeah, c’mon.” The darkness makes all the difference, freeing me up from the stares of others and the paranoia of constantly being judged. Down in the circle, the drum is passed around as hands and arms get tired. “When I learned snake arms, I was taught to imagine rolling a coin down your arm.” I try it while swinging my hips in a figure eight. First the right, then the left arm. “Yeah, that’s it! Try to isolate it to just your hips.” She demonstrates. Just then the drumming stopped. “Stop f------ messing up,” she thinks aloud before we head back down to the fire. “Where are all the guys?” Sordid asks. About 10 of the 15 people in the circle are women. “In the SCA, it’s like four men to every woman.” It was that way during the day. About two dozen armored men fought sword to sword and dagger to dagger, in an open list or over a wooden barrier, all for their ladies — their inspiration. Before each bout, a lady came to the front of the stage. “What knightly quality do you best portray?” she would ask. Honesty, humility, loyalty, largess, prowess, courage or justice? Why should the populace choose them to be the next lord of the White Hart? The winners from each event were charged with leading it the following year. Orlando di Bene del Vinta, the
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champion of the rapier tournament, became the Defender of the White Hart; the winner of the archery competition became the Yeoman of the White Hart; the arts and sciences winner became the Artisan; and the noblest heavy fencer and his lady, with the love of the populace, became the Lord and Lady of the White Hart. The current lord and lady, Olaf and Red, still portray chivalry. The tournament was his first event in the SCA, and it marks their anniversary. At the start of the day, Olaf professed his undying love for Red, comparing it to the fake rose he had given her. “This rose represents the absolute love I am now willing to offer my beloved Ingrid. This rose will never die, like my love for you will never die. This rose today represents my consecration, eternal loyalty and never-ending love.” He handed her a shoe box wrapped with brown paper and filled with multiple smaller boxes. The last was a jewelry box. He got down on one knee, proposing a life together as tears welled up in her eyes. It was “a long time coming,” but she still wasn’t prepared for it. “Yes.” The populace cried out with a booming, “Vivat!” And the day stretched onward. “Hello, and welcome to dinner!” shouts the feasticrat Meisterin Felicitas Flussmuellnerin. Everyone empties out their baskets of period and modern feast gear on the cloaked folding tables and promptly sits down with their households. After more than two hours in the Royal Court watching and cheering on people receiving awards, my stomach is growling. “Court usually isn’t that long. We just haven’t been
A NEW TAKE ON THE PAST here in so long that the awards just piled up,” King Timothy apologizes as it had been a year since the last trip to Syracuse, N.Y. The first course is tender cuts of beef in a light mustard broth with a side of cabbage and beet salad served cold. Servers come around to the high table first before attending to the 60-plus gentles seated at the five long tables lined up in the Missio Parish House. Today is The Feast of the Seven Deadly Sins, a re-creation of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. It was an attempt for the French and English to ally, but instead the three-week-long meeting became a time for both to try to outshine each other with feats of skill and displays of wealth. “It’s like French onion soup, but with beer in it” the Meisterin explains for the next course, and it is topped with bread bits. As I hadn’t brought any of my own dinnerware and borrowed extras from the autocrat Vrouw Lijsbet de Kuekere, I have no bowl to eat it from. Queen Gabrielle hands me hers, though, saying she will share with her husband. Their Majesties do not partake in drink, unless their duty requires it. King Timothy has a taste then passes it to his wife. Watered down ale does not a soup make, but it succeeds in making the other courses more “orgasmic.” This feast has nine courses. Slices of smoked sausage made with curds, dates and cloves, cooked in a smoker purchased just for this feast, and chicken sausage stuffed with walnuts and almonds come around. Hands grab at the serving plates as they pass by. The tender pieces fall apart in my mouth. Delicious. Not long into the feast, one graying lord steps up to the high table. “It is efficient in our society that someone like myself at this time of day stands up and asks everyone here to toast our crown,” he says to the room. “To their Majesties of AEthelmearc, Gabrielle and Timothy! Vivat!” The populace raises their goblets and cheers with a resounding, “Vivat! Vivat! Vivat!” On this day of war, there isn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun beats down on the people. It has been a long day of rapier fights, and there is no relief from the heat. No trees to sit under and rarely a lick of wind. Even so, a hundred people crowd around the list. Rapier champions fighting to the death for either the Kingdom of the East or the Kingdom of the Middle take to the field two-by-two based upon their allegiances and skill. Benedict Fergus is among those for East, nervously waiting for his fight against Robert Red Boots, a fellow member of the Order of the White Scarf but also a master fencer and nearly 20 years his senior. Red Boots has the experience, but Fergus has quickness. Finally, Fergus and Red Boots are called. Fergus dons his black, modified fencer’s mask atop his
shoulder-length, dirty-blonde hair. A sword in his right hand, and a dagger in his left. They got into their set stance: dominant arm outstretched with sword pointing at the opponent, dagger arm bent upward, also pointing at opponent. Deep breaths. They are ready. “Lay on,” the marshal says. They step toward each other, almost lunging. Out shoots Fergus’ weapons, then back to his body for defense. Moving in and out of each other’s range then darting in. Attack. Fergus and Red Boots continue to move around the list. Eyes always locked on each other. Thrust. Block. Jab. Jab. Block. Until… Fergus steps wrong as Red Boots’ sword jabs. Hit. Fergus calls it and goes down as the blow lands on his thigh, forcing him to his knees. Devastation comes over. It is now close to impossible for him to win this fight. “I would not feel right killing a man who is so disadvantaged on the ground. Please, my lord, would you care to yield this fight to me?” “No, my lord. My honor would not allow me to. So, please, let us continue.” All maneuverability is gone, and now Fergus has to stick to defense, using his sword and dagger to block Red Boot’s shots, shields against the constant blows. A kill strike shoots out for Fergus. He catches it. But, his nerves take over. Better to do the honorable thing. He calls out a hit — his death — but Robert tells him no. That didn’t land. It wasn’t a good shot. He had to bring him to the ground, but Red Boots is quick to defend and thrusts another jab. Fergus’ sword arm stabbed. He calls it and drops his dagger, switching his sword to his left hand. It is just a matter of time. “My lord, would you at this time care to yield? I clearly have the advantage here. Please, would you yield?” No, he will not. His lady is watching. Red Boots thrusts his sword toward Fergus’ shoulder. He moves to defend and then Red Boots quickly disengages down, landing on Fergus’ navy brocade doublet, which his lady made for him. Fergus falls over. Dead. “Swift sings the rapier, deadly a tame. Flashes of beauty, courage and fame …” As soon as Orlando’s song ends, the room breaks into applause, and the Baron promises to try to become worthy of it. And once more, the populace is asked to charge their glasses. “Not for people who stand in this hall,” says one member of the populace. “But in the knowledge that there are those far away, people dear to our hearts who serve in foreign lands, people who apply the craft of war in places where, sadly, many of us would dare not tread. I offer you, absent friends.” “Absent friends,” everyone says solemnly, returning to their plates, awaiting the next course of chicken bacon pie.
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spring 2014
FROM
SOUNDS UNDERGROUND
WRITTEN BY ERICA PALUMBO PHOTOS BY TUCKER MITCHELL
There’s not much Bubba Crumrine hasn’t seen. He has witnessed a metal band’s frontman walk upside down on the ceiling of The Shop, a small Ithaca coffee beanery, after being flipped over and hoisted in the air like a rag doll by the comically over-capacity crowd. He became inadvertently involved in a live performance by former all-female, art punk band HotChaCha, when the lead singer paused their set to slam a 24-ounce can of beer — saving half to pour into Bubba’s mouth and seal it with an aggressive kiss. And he has been on the receiving end of a crowd’s searing adrenaline rush when he decided to crowd surf during a New England Metal and Hardcore Festival performance and was subsequently catapulted into the air because the audience “underestimated his less-than130-pound frame.” Bubba has been around the alternative music block countless times and has tested the waters of nearly every genre under the vast metal music umbrella — mathrock, grindore, noise-rock, hardcore and progressive to name a few. Since 2008 when he took over Ithaca Underground, an independent music booking agency, he has rubbed shoulders with some of the scene’s biggest names: Swallowing Bile, Shredded Nerve and Eating Scabs for Protein — a sampling of the more colorful monikers. “I asked IU’s founder, Jayme Peck, if he needed help running the org’s Myspace page. It’d only been around for about a year, and he kind of was basically like, ‘Hey, if you’re running the Myspace page, why don’t you just take this over?’ I was kind of just like, ‘Ah, what the hell.’ And I’ve been doing it ever since.” But every show still feels like a first. Especially tonight’s event at The Haunt in Ithaca, which Bubba guarantees is going to be epic. March rain falls light and steady outside the concrete building, its cold sting chasing smokers inside. The Haunt, an amalgamation of a barbecue joint, nightclub, music venue and local watering hole, has boasted the likes of Pearl Jam, Red Hot Chili Peppers and one-hit-wonder rapper Sammy Adams within its walls since it moved locations in 1997 to the waterside of Route 13. But tonight is not a night for mere mainstream mortals. Tonight it is Syracuse, N.Y.–based, noisepunk band Perfect Pussy’s turn to test the capacity of the human eardrum.
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“
In high school, I would wear shorts made out of plastic and goggles with the lenses punched out and necklaces and bracelets. I always felt like I was a piece of art.
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– Bubba Crumrine
“Trust me, you’re going to need these,” Bubba says, handing over a pair of orange foam earplugs, standard operating gear for IU shows, before bouncing over to the front of the stage where Perfect Pussy is gearing up to perform. It takes less than a minute for lead singer Meredith Graves to explode like a pygmy racehorse exiting the starting gate into a thrashing, angry, adrenaline-fueled number from the band’s wryly-named debut album, “Say Yes to Love.” “It’s like peeling off my skin,” are some of the only discernible words Graves snarls into the mic during the 10-minute set. The lyrics are muddled by manipulated soundboard screeches and clashing cymbal claps. The venue grows cold as her distorted, fast-paced vocals alternate between whispers and screams. Bubba and a handful of friends begin a choreographed dance, alternating left foot, right foot, inside circle, outside circle. But this is no two-step; the group is engaged in a mock fight. Left hooks are thrown, shoulders are shoved and the crowd steps back to give them ample room to prevent themselves from receiving a rogue jab. “They’re moshing,” Melissa Casano, an IU volunteer and Bubba’s longtime romantic partner says with a laugh. “Bubba dances like that at pretty much every show, he’s literally the Energizer Bunny.” Bubba and his throng of flailing, bearded, beanie-clad men enliven the crowd, which begins to bang its heads and jump around in response. “Ha ha! Go f--- yourself!” Graves shouts feeding off the audience’s energy and pumping her tiny fist in the air, imploring her captivated audience to have its own mini-revolutions. “They did a limited release of the LP with Meredith’s blood in it!” Bubba shouts above the piercing vocals as he trots back over, his hair in matted disarray. He casually refers to when the band sold 300 white vinyls in March laced with samples of Graves’ blood. While Music Times called the blood-smeared LP the “most metal record ever,” Bubba says the stunt is more along the lines of “hilarious.” True to her gritty, screw-the-patriarchy spirit, Graves tops off Perfect Pussy’s last song with a violent spit into
the crowd. Bubba grins. “So wicked.” It’s hard to gauge the sheer amount of responsibility that falls squarely on Bubba’s squat shoulders. His daily responsibilities include booking bands, show promotions, fundraisers, partnership meetings with venues and potential sponsors and doing what he can to secure a 501c3 so his organization can gain nonprofit status to be exempt from federal taxes. Juggling the daily planning of events and his day job as a business development representative with Ithaca-based software company CBORD, Bubba manages to remain as collectively cool as he is chaotically unhinged. “Genital Holograms,” he says, nodding fondly as if recalling a particularly warm childhood memory. “That was the name of one of the bands I was in earlier on when I first got involved with IU.” But the crux of Bubba’s character lies in how absurdly, gobsmackingly loveable he is. It’s easy to forget he is at the helm of an organization that often books bands specializing in producing the kind of music that plunges the audience into the depths of hell. Bubba walks back over to the merchandise table where “Ithaca is Underground” T-shirts are being sold and an abandoned-looking plastic mayonnaise container reads “DONATIONS: Please Support Ithaca Underground.” But not before he’s stopped by at least three people for high-fives, hugs and a brief conversation — or as close to one as can be had over blaring metal music. “I’ve never seen someone give or receive as many hugs as this guy,” the Haunt’s seasoned doorman Aaron Price says, eyeing the 5-foot-7-inch promoter bear-hug the 6-foot-3-inch bassist of hardcore Ithaca punk band King Sized Pegasus. The 32-year-old’s compact body structure gives him the appearance of an underdeveloped boy oddly sporting a coarse black goatee and tightly-curled, shoulder-length black hair. Though his petiteness has hindered his ability to obtain entry into 21-and-over venues, it has also made him all the more memorable as a key figure in what he refers to as the local “DIY” music scene. “DIY means including folks that don’t ride any sort of line,” Bubba says, a steadfast belief the organization has held from the very beginning. “Of the 40 to 50 bands we book a year, we have a bunch of queer, bi, straight, you-name-it bands in IU. Bands need to know that they’re playing in a place where that’s valued and accepted, and discrimination is not tolerated. When I’m informed of a band member’s sexual orientation, it’s more like, OK, great! Here’s something about you as a person that we didn’t know, cool.” On any given day, Bubba can be found walking around town in a flowing velvet maxi skirt, a galabeya — an ornate, beaded Egyptian gown — gifted to him from a dear friend or his favorite pair of purple and black zebra-striped Doc
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SOUNDS FROM UNDERGROUND
Martins, which he proudly sports tonight. “When I see clothing, I don’t really see gender. It was never a thing. My appearance was always a little bit of a statement to question what we see as gender and what we perceive gender roles to be. In high school, I would wear shorts made out of plastic and goggles with the lenses punched out and necklaces and bracelets. I always felt like I was a piece of art.” But it hadn’t always been simple for him growing up with a radically different palate than most of his peers for alternative fashion and music. In fact, trying to be himself in high school was a real bitch sometimes. “They’re gonna try something with me, I know they’re gonna try something.” Bubba had taken this walk down the cold science hallway of Fairport High School in Rochester, N.Y., more times than he could count. The sneers were as common as the sound of rusty lockers being slammed, and he was growing weary of both. “Just chill,” Brett said in a futile attempt to calm his bandmate down. Bubba stopped in front of a blank, red brick wall and taped up a poster proclaiming the show their metal band, Endo, would be playing at The Lion’s Den, a local venue, that Friday night. “Turnout’s gonna be huge, you’ll see. That’s what Sean thinks.”
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But in that moment, Bubba wasn’t concerned about the show’s turnout. He wasn’t thinking about how the audience would react to their unique, new metal–esque sound or how on earth they were going to scrape together enough money to buy a new drum set. He was preoccupied with the way the jocks across the hall were eyeing him. “I’m sick of these guys. Don’t you think they’d get tired of calling us faggots every day?” Tom — or was it Matt? They’re all the same anyways — a classic lacrosse-playing, teenage male approached Bubba and Brett right on cue. “Why the hell do you wear that s--- on your eyes?” he demanded, as his friends gleefully looked on. But Bubba was used to this. He had been harassed with the same questions ever since he traded up his T-shirt and jeans in sixth grade for eyeliner, a Candyland baby doll top and poofed hair. “Because I can.” Bubba wore his differences like a badge of honor, and they were a shield he could use to protect himself against the “assholes.” Their words usually did little to dilute his inherent self-confidence. But today was different. He was feeling unusually low, and Tom/Matt’s vindictive inquiry stung a bit. Who were they anyway? They didn’t know him or his life. They didn’t know how hard his band worked and how passionate it was about providing this stagnant town with a fresh, new musical perspective. God, they were all so ignorant and boring in their sameness. He couldn’t wait to get out of there in a year. “It’s free, so tell your friends,” Brett said handing Tom/ Matt a flier in a sad attempt to diffuse the situation. “You guys are such a joke,” was all Tom/Matt could manage through his laughter as he turned around to rejoin his entourage, letting the leaflet flutter to the ground in his wake. “Whatever, they’re idiots,” Brett stated as Bubba quietly seethed. They watched as Tom/Matt and company tore down posters in passing, laughing and shouting to ensure the student body knew that this was their turf and they could do whatever they pleased. Assholes. “I guess we could retrace our steps and hang them back up,” Brett offered. “Nah, I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of a double tear-down.” Picking up the remainder of the posters, Bubba and Brett trudged on through the hallway, posting the rest of the signs along their designated route. Brett seemed to be unaffected by the incident, but it was all Bubba could do not to run after the assholes and let them have it. But Bubba knew that in time, their opinions wouldn’t matter. Soon enough, things would be different.
SOUNDS FROM UNDERGROUND A black tapestry bearing the letters “SOS”, a skull re- “Thanks, man. It was kind of a cathartic move after a placing the ‘O’, provides a backdrop for the first Pirate House breakup of 5 years.” show this year. “Oh, I totally get what you’re saying, I really feel that. Pink insulation hangs out of the shallow ceiling, dot- Well it totally looks grizzled and badass! Want another beer?” ted with cobwebs and sawdust, which shake with every Bubba uses the time between performances to strategiloud reverberation. Cold, cement concrete blocks ensure the cally mingle and catch up with nearly every person in the basement gets little to no sunlight or heat in the winter, room, sliding around standing bodies in the cramped space though the lack of warmth is quickly replaced by the intense and jumping nimbly over the couch in the back room to acmugginess of 40 bodies packed tightly together. cess the other side of the basement. Spotting a college-age Idle chatter fills the space until three clipped electric guitar bespectacled boy drinking straight from a Fireball whiskey strums silence the crowd. Ithaca-based experimental metal bottle, Bubba gives him a nod of approval and sharp clap on band Sarraceno is ready to shred. the back. Bubba’s house has hosted more basement shows than he “My man.” can count since he purchased it in 2007. The first band to play a Hiroshima Vacation’s up fourth, and it’s the group’s show in his home, former Syracuse-based band Rejouissance, last Ithaca show. Bubba has been playing electronics for the liked Bubba’s comgrindcore band for a pany so much, the while now, and it’s a members ended bittersweet ending to up crashing at his their five-year run. house for a week The succinctness of while on tour. the moment is not lost “Yeah, bands on the silent crowd. have stayed at my “You guys are weird!” house on occasion someone yells. when they’re pass “Thanks!” Bubba ing through town,” yells back. he says slowly draining his can The Pirate House of Pabst Blue Ribitself is an extension bon beer. “It’s cool; of Bubba. Its bookit really gives the cases are lined with scene this culture multicolored trinof interconnectedkets — most gifted ness.” from friends or pieces Sarraceno he acquired durfrontman Alexaning periods living in dre Ribeiro begins Rochester and PennWith Ithaca Underground, people can basically his deep death sylvania where he turn it into anything they need it to be and don’t growls into the attended Mansfield have to feel like they need to do anything or be mic, which grow University, or gifts stronger as his lyrfrom his older sister anything but what they are to fit in, ics grow angrier. Priscilla who lives – Bubba Crumrine A good number in England with of band members her family. work as line cooks, The bathroom door grocery store cais filled with Sharpied shiers, retailers or telemarketers during the day, using the lyrics to songs, poems and ideas, and the couch he lounges on night hours on stage for emotional release. Sarraceno proudly is practically molded to fit his figure. He is home. describes their music as “a cathartic release of our most de- “With Ithaca Underground, people can basically turn it ranged, manic and salacious thoughts translated into loud, into anything they need it to be and don’t have to feel like distorted vibrations designed to assault your senses and stir they need to do anything or be anything but what they are your loins.” to fit in,” Bubba says, pausing for a moment to reflect on IU’s Walking over to a nearly bald man wearing an armor- core ethos. plated black overcoat, Bubba greets him with a warm smile “I love being able to bring that here, that amazing feeling and a “Hey, you f------ toolbag! I like the shaved head!” of ‘I can put myself out there and not have to hide.’”
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spring 2014
HOW THE MIGHTY HAVEN’T FALLEN WRITTEN BY JESSICA CORBETT
Her left leg violently shakes from bearing the full weight of her slender body. Her right leg raises to waist level with her foot flexed and her toes pointed toward the floor. Slivers of shiny hardwood peek out from beneath sticky rubber rectangles. The studio is a sea of colored mats. Today, most are shades of blue and purple — some brought, some borrowed. She straightens her arms, reaching forward to whitepaned windows and the Mighty Yoga sign. Beads of sweat drop to her yoga mat, which won’t be peeled off the floor for at least an hour. As she slowly lowers her right leg, which was raised for warrior three, her foot lands near the back of the mat. The right leg stays straight while the left bends at the knee. Her arms reach to the ceiling. Warrior one. Virabhadrasana. She is one of 30 students in Liz Falk’s Thursday afternoon all-levels class. Liz stands near the middle window at the front of the room, watching carefully as 30 bodies shift at her gentle commands. Her black curls are captured at the nape of her neck. A purple racerback clings to her tiny, toned body, her bottom half concealed by calf-length leggings and a stretchy black skirt.
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PHOTO COURTESY OF LIZ FALK
Liz has been teaching workshops and weekly classes at Mighty Yoga for about three years, and her specialty is progressive vinyasa flow. Just as it sounds, this style of yoga focuses on flow, with each sequence — called namaskars — adding more poses as the practice progresses. “Yoga is the union of movements and breath,” Liz reminds her students, urging them to move at their own pace. Liz approaches each class with a plan, which typically includes a theme, perhaps a focus on one of the Chakras, and several namaskars from warming flows to peak flows to cooling flows. But she often adjusts her sequences mid-practice, gauging the skill level of her students or “the energy of the room.” A few poses are always a part of the practice. “Breathe in for upward dog. Urdhva Mukha Svanasana.” For some who are new to yoga, the foreign language can be off-putting. Because the studio emphasizes accessibility, instructors always use the poses’ English names too. Liz says learning the Sanskrit names was an important aspect of learning yoga and in her classes she tries to “balance accessibility and respecting the tradition of the practice.” The student on the coral mat can’t quite make sense of
HOW THE MIGHTY HAVEN’T FALLEN the Sanskrit, but she mimics the movements of the students in front of her. Arching her back, she pushes her upper body off the mat, supported by stiff, straight arms and hands that press into the floor. “Exhale. Shift to downward dog.” Bottoms up and bent over, staring facedown at the ornate pattern on her mat, the student tries to equally distribute her weight. Her arms and legs are steady. Liz delivers more instructions in her relaxed, encouraging tone. “Inhale and move to plank. Push through the heels.” The balls of her feet press into the mat, her back flat. Her straight, stiff arms begin to shake as she holds in her breath. “Breathe out and slowly lower to a low push up — Chaturanga.” Chat-oo-run-ga. Unlike warrior three, which requires strong leg muscles and quite a bit of balance, these key movements come naturally to most. But even with the easiest of poses, students usually need a friendly reminder: “Don’t forget to breathe.” On a shelf against the window rests a black sign with intentionally distressed white lettering: BE YOURSELF. EVERYONE ELSE IS TAKEN. The lounge, a somewhat new addition to Mighty Yoga, is sprinkled with colorful Ugg and L.L. Bean boots shoved into and under mismatched shelves. Puffy winter coats overwhelm the rack that runs along the inside wall. Caught between two afternoon classes, the lounge fills quickly with students of all ages. The regulars greet each other by name, but the crowded space forces even strangers to converse. “Hi, George.” “Yeah, I just got back.” “I have no energy today.” George and another yogi strike up a conversation while everyone else ransacks the coat rack. “Excuse me.” “I’m just standing here awkwardly.” The yogis shuffle around searching for bags, boots and nearly empty water bottles. Most students arrive in typical yogi attire: racerbacks, T-shirts and skin-tight cropped cotton or spandex pants. “Where did you get your yoga mat bag?” “A thrift shop in Tucson, Arizona, actually. It was a really good find.” “You doing the February Challenge?” “Nah. I’m too poor for that,” a young female yogi says, glancing at the February Challenge poster hanging above a mess of boots and bags. Forty-one names are scribbled on the poster in black marker. Each name is followed by a row of multicolored star stickers, an indication of completed classes. While the
challenge is free to join, students still have to pay the full price for their classes. The goal is to complete 24 classes within the month. Nameless personal goal sheets decorate the rest of the wall. One near the center reads: 1. Yoga! 2. Yoga! 3. Yoga! Three suede, armless chairs are clustered around the BE YOURSELF sign, as well as a stack of Yoga Journal magazines. Most days the chairs stay empty. But today, a young woman sits cross-legged, ignoring the swarming lounge. Her fiercely cropped brown hair falls forward as she journals fiercely. Despite the “disconnect to re-connect” signs scattered throughout the studio, another young woman bounds toward the check-in room, chatting loudly on her cellphone. “Yay! Cool, have fun with your mom and I will talk to you soon.” Yoga mats and Mighty Yoga gear — from water bottles to plum racerbacks with “Kick your own asana” in orange text across the chest — are on display to the left of check-in. There are only a few mats left for sale, but one stands out: It’s a vibrant lime green. At $22, it’s one of only two cheap mats left. The rest are priced around $65. According to Liz, “some people get really picky about their mats.” The studio’s instructors take turns manning the desk as students shuffle in from the lounge, greeting the students as they line up at the desk. “Hi, Heidi.” “Hi, George.” “Hi, Judy.” “This class is always so crowded.” Liz sits cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by shelves of pricy, Jade brand yoga mats. After studying natural resources and sustainable development in Costa Rica and Washington, D.C., where she taught yoga for seven years, Liz began teaching at Mighty Yoga in 2011. Yoga has helped Liz build an awareness of her body and a stronger connection with the earth. A selfdescribed environmentalist and earth-lover, yoga isn’t Liz’s only job. In addition to teaching garden education part-time for Cornell University Cooperative Extension, she now shares a farm with her fiancé, Steve, where they grow shiitake mushrooms and raise ducks for eggs. They recently added four sheep to their farm — named Wellspring Forest Farm — to help with pasture rehabilitation of the land. She spends two to three days a week working on developing the farm. It’s important to Liz that her jobs “are not just paying the bills,” but that they also reflect her ethics. While Liz and Steve hope to build a house on their land in the next year or so, for the past two years they have lived in a yurt, or a large, one-room tent. “It’s basically just like a round house without very much insulation” — so it gets cold in the Ithaca winters. They have a wood stove, a
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HOW THE MIGHTY HAVEN’T FALLEN water system and solar power. “It can be hard to do yoga there.” The instructor at the desk fiddles with the computer, rattling off Heidi’s options to renew her monthly package. For today, Heidi pays the drop-in rate, picks up a marble Mighty Yoga stone — to be collected at the start of class — and heads toward the studio, mat in hand. The studio lies beyond a set of maroon-curtained double doors. Most of the ceiling spotlights are illuminated; their beams bounce off the brilliant tangerine studio walls. White wood paneling works around the bottom half of the room, accented by swirling lines of red paint and white Christmas lights. Liz stands at the front of the room, sporting a black, spaghetti-strap tank and bright aqua Capri pants. She has just returned from the Virgin Islands, where she celebrated her parents’ 45th anniversary. Upon first glance, it’s easy to miss her nose ring: just a small, silver stud. Liz seems somewhat out of place with her freshly tanned skin and bright smile; Ithaca’s blustery February weather is visible through the large windows behind her. “We have the same pants!” MADDY is scribbled on the lid of this student’s green Kombucha bottle, which she keeps just barely in reach at the top of the rented navy mat. Maddy pairs her aqua capris with a slouchy grey Ramones T-shirt. Her brown hair is pulled back in a haphazard bun. She never removes her silver toe ring, despite the warrior poses and squats that put her full weight on her feet. The silver ring shines in the dim light as she presses into the mat. She shifts from warrior three into a lunge. Orange earrings, shaped like teardrops falling toward the sky, sway as she changes poses. Her moves are effortlessly steady; she’s a practiced yogi. The Thursday afternoon class is taught for all levels, so practiced yogis stand out. Many of them are decorated with tattoos partially concealed by their spandex. George removes his T-shirt to reveal a red and orange sun behind two black pyramids on one of his muscular arms, which bulges when he moves to a plank position. Liz warmly welcomes her students, urging them to find what they need for themselves within the practice. She usually starts class with a question: “Any requests for today?” “Core.” “Twists.” Some days no one answers. The week of Valentine’s Day, Liz kicks off class with a personal story. She explains the class will focus on “moves that open the heart.” Liz often chooses a focus when planning the sequence of poses for her classes. But this week’s focus wasn’t inspired by a Hallmark holiday.
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Liz and Steve were cross-country skiing North of
Syracuse, N.Y. They spent their afternoon trekking through two-to-three feet of snow with their dog, Sadie. “Everything was great, and then she ran off.” The part husky pup has done this before, but the area was unfamiliar, so she couldn’t just run home. For a while, Liz and Steve followed in the direction she ran, calling out her name. After some time, they realized they were losing daylight and decided to split up. Steve kept following Sadie’s tracks in the snow, and Liz headed back to the car. When she reached the vehicle she burst into tears. “I just felt this sense of losing hope in possibility.” She reached out to friends and family. “I texted everybody who knew Sadie, people who loved Sadie.” She told them: “Picture her for a moment and send her back to us.” They spent about four hours searching for Sadie, but soon, it was blizzarding and nearly dark. Shortly after sending the mass text message, Liz drove to the intersection where she’d planned to meet Steve so they could find a hotel for the night. And there she was. In a place none of them had ever been before, Liz found Sadie lying in the middle of the intersection, waiting for them. Inspired by the emotional weekend adventure, Liz designed her week’s classes to focus on trust, vulnerability and opening the heart. While the experience shook her, it made her recall something she was told by one of her yoga teachers: “In the yoga practice, as in life, we sometimes have a fear of falling, or perhaps it’s a fear of flying — being all we can be and being willing to put yourself out there to be vulnerable, ask for help, open to the potential of growth…” Liz says she prefers to fly. “You have to put yourself out there, trust yourself and trust that you’ll lift off!” The impact a yoga teacher can have is not something she takes lightly. Practicing yoga in a studio requires building a relationship of trust between teacher and student. “We connect with [our] teachers based on their ethics, their practice and how and what they offer.” Liz sees touch as one of the most powerful tools a teacher can use to help students deepen their experience. Being assisted or adjusted is one of her favorite parts of yoga — an aspect of the practice that she believes makes yoga kind and loving, in stark contrast to many sports and gym workouts. Liz is always in motion, and with more than a decade of yoga practice, she is also capable of stillness. She weaves her way through the maze of mats, looking for ways she can help her students reach poses they can’t quite find themselves. Carla Bruni’s French ballad, Quelqu’un m’a dit, plays softly from iPod speakers near the front of the room. “Pourtant quelqu’un m’a dit que tu m’aimais encore. C’est quelqu’un qui m’a dit que tu m’aimais encore.” (But someone told me that you still love me. Someone said you loved me still.) For much of the practice the music is purely in-
HOW THE MIGHTY HAVEN’T FALLEN strumental, with gentle acoustic pieces and a bit of African drumming music, which was given to Liz by one of her students. The class is back in a key pose: downward facing dog. Liz approaches the young woman on the coral mat, first placing her hand on the student’s hips and then shoulders. The adjustment is gentle — compassionate, but effective. The student slowly inhales, pushing deeper into the stretch. “Send the right leg back for three legged dog. Inhale and step through letting the foot land between the hands. The back heel finds the floor parallel to the mat. Open to warrior two.” Hands are grasped behind the back but repeatedly slip apart from the sweat. The room is hot. “I’ve been thinking recently about the privilege of being a yoga teacher,” Liz shares with her students as she continues to moves between mats. “It’s humbling.” A student once told Liz she enjoys her classes because “they’re universe-based — grounded in something that we recognize is bigger than us.” “The mat is a mirror,” Liz says. Liz sees yoga as more than just a physical practice. It is therapeutic, but also has a “kickassness” about it. “There’s a tradition the practice involved breath, asana — poses — meditation, and how we treat ourselves and others,” she says. “It’s not just going to the gym. We show up because we believe in something.” Near the end of the 75-minute class, Liz powers down the iPod speakers spouting classical music and shuts off two rows of ceiling spotlights. The room is dark. Rows of students lay on their backs or in child’s pose — the only time positions aren’t planned and synchronized. Liz shares a quote. “A human being is part of a whole, called by us the ‘Universe’ — a part limited in time and space.” She pauses between sentences, but her pace stays steady. The studio is quiet except for her patient voice. “He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest — a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness.” Eyes closed, students listen as their teacher demonstrates her approach to yoga through the borrowed words. “This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circles of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.”
“
Albert Einstein. Liz invites her students to participate in the end of the practice. The students break their silence with “the sound of the universe,” a single “Aummmm.” Seated with legs crossed and hands pressed together at her chest, Liz bows forward. Her students follow suit. “Namaste.” Lifting her head from the bow, a middle-aged woman near the middle of the room stands and walks to the front. Her neon green shirt stands out against the tangerine studio walls. She holds out a sheet of paper to Liz, requesting her signature. Susan is training to become a yoga instructor. As part of her training, she must explore local studios. Now, there are only two more classes standing between herself and her certification. It is a cold February afternoon. Susan is early. She lives about 20 minutes away, but always allows extra time for traffic. This is only her second time at Mighty Yoga. She runs her fingers through her blonde highlights, trying to catch her breath. “It’s so hard to find parking around here. Are the doors open?” The doors to the check-in desk, changing lounge and studio are all locked. “What time is it?” “25 ’til.” “25 ’til 3?” “Yep.” Liz arrives to unlock to the doors around 2:45 p.m. Susan approaches the desk, says her name and takes a Mighty Yoga stone from a box. The green and teal marble stones indicate a student has checked in and are collected by the instructors at the start of class. Susan heads for the studio, eager to warm up. She unrolls her blue mat beside the far wall, a few rows from the front of the room. After a few deep breaths, she begins to stretch. Because she spends her days forcing her arms forward while shoeing horses, she tries to focus on extending in the other direction when practicing yoga. Standing at her mat, Susan rolls her shoulders and reaches her arms behind her. Susan started yoga about two and half years ago. She picked up the practice as a way to cope with her daughter’s poor health. Susan won’t say much about her daughter — only that yoga has helped her physically and emotionally. She started training as an instructor because of yoga’s impact on her life. “It’s healing,” she finally says, tears settling in her eyes.
IT’S NOT JUST GOING TO THE GYM. WE SHOW UP BECAUSE WE BELIEVE IN SOMETHING.
“
– Liz falk
Lit
spring 2014
A
COLLEGE STUDENT WALKS INTO A
BAR...
“Bagpipe Mariachi — $9” reads the crisp, watermarked paper atop the long, L-shaped zinc bar. Espolón Silver, apple-fennel shrub, lemon, sugar, celery bitters, Laphroaig. The Mariachi starts out almost like a mild margarita and finishes with a smoky taste of Scotland. Two ice cubes lightly bounce, floating at the surface of the tawny drink. Behind the bar, the brick wall opens to large pane glass windows that looks down to The Commons. No more than two blocks away, college students are just beginning to descend downtown for Thursday drink specials at their regular dives. But here, neon fishbowls and $2 draughts in plastic cups are nowhere in sight. At Bar Argos, collared shirts are accompanied by ties. On stage, a three-man band plays fusion blues and world
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WRITTEN BY Nik DeCosta-Klipa
PHOTOS BY AMANDA DEN HARTOG & TUCKER MITCHELL
music; driving, but mellow. The area between the stage and the bar is crowded, but not uncomfortably so. The front of the menu, printed in ornate typeface, is divided into two columns: “Historic Preservation” on the left and “The Local Talent” on the right. Next to each drink name is a small circle — open, half-filled or completely shaded in — explained at the bottom of the page by “Mel’s Scale of Weirdness,” ranging from “Colloquial” to “Delightfully Unusual” to “What?!” A footnote at the bottom of the menu reads: “B.A. (bē-ā) adj. Bar Argos. Denotes in-house ingredient. One of a kind, top-notch delicious.” The “Historic Preservation” section mainly features bar manager Melody’s twists on traditional Prohibition Era cocktails. “The Local Talent,” however, includes the “delightfully unusual” Vespertine, (Tito’s vodka,
A COLLEGE STUDENT WALKS INTO A BAR... cucumber-firecracker pepper shrub, Kina L’Avion D’Or), which Mel notes often takes new cocktail drinkers simply looking for a vodka drink off guard, or the simpler, yet still eclectic, Sloop John B (Mt. Gay Eclipse rum, B.A. pear-chai shrub). At the far corner of the bar, two male Cornell University graduate students, dressed smart casual, with aspirations toward semi-formal, examine the menu, musing about the potential price of two glasses of whisky. “At least $20.” The two settle on a particular Japanese whisky, which Mel remarks has been popular tonight, ordering “two doubles on the rocks,” and one hands over his credit card before Mel even finishes saying the price. Cards, not cash, are the generally preferred method of payment. After pouring the drinks, Melody places the whisky bottle on the shelf mounted behind the bar, rejoining the extensive assortment of other eclectic bottles: Ramazzotti, Bulleit, Old Raj. Below the top shelf are rows of mason jars filled with craft ingredients: bitters, shrubs and tinctures, all homemade with seasonal fruits and local produce. There is no bottom shelf. “Does it make you want to have a second sip?” “I… yeah, I guess.” “Well, good!” replies Autumn, as she, Mel and Max experiment with new drink recipes one early afternoon. As the newest entrant into their craft cocktail culture, I provide whatever unsophisticated feedback I can to any samples that slide my way. “It’s like having an hors d’oeuvre,” Autumn continues. “In French cooking, an hors d’oeuvre is one and a half bites. You can eat it while you’re standing, and you don’t need a napkin. You have one bite and it makes you want to have just another. And then you have that second, last bite and your palate experience is over, for that part. “It’s about savoring each sip, rather than, like,
getting wasted.” Any reference to “drunkenness” carries with it almost a half-glance downtown, which garners the most — intoxicated — volume during late nights. Daylight streams inward through the windows, splashing across the bar and the editions of The New Yorker and Architectural Digest on the lobby coffee table, as the barstools slowly fill with an after-work crowd. Sitting at the center of the counter, a woman with reading glasses and short, gray hair holds the bar menu with an older friend quietly sitting next to her. They’ve been looking at the menu for some time. Mel notices and transforms from drink maker to drink consultant. “How can I help you two? Is there anything you’re looking for in particular?” The woman with the menu looks up and smiles, blissfully perplexed, a bit beleaguered by the menu’s eccentrics. “Ummm, well, something not sweet, but, I think, citrus oriented. The Vespertine looks interesting. You make it with cucumber-firecracker pepper shrub? Is that an infusion?” “Are you familiar with shrubbing?” Mel asks, diving into a history of the process of shrubbing, used before refrigeration by fermenting fruit with vinegar, sugar and often alcohol into a syrupy, acidulated beverage, preserving fruits long past their shelf life. With a sweet and tart taste, usually mixed with cool water, shrubs, which date back to colonial times, were said to stimulate appetite, an original American aperitif. “Wow, I feel so uninformed,” the woman responds, chuckling. “No, no, no please don’t!” Almost over-concerned about not projecting Argos as a stereotypically pretentious cocktail lounge, Mel moves back to the menu to find these women a drink. “I’m gonna ask you about one more…” “Of course.” Mel’s cocktail lessons have sparked the woman’s curiosity, and rather than making a decision, she continues querying the menu. Mel enthusiastically obliges.
Lit
spring 2014
A COLLEGE STUDENT WALKS INTO A BAR... “I think I’m going to go with the one that most pops out, which I think is The Vespertine, just because it is totally different.” “It is totally different!” Mel says about their recreation of the vodka, gin and aperitif wine cocktail The Vesper. The Vespertine, however, combines the aforementioned cucumber-firecracker pepper shrub. “But not in a bad way!” “Well I don’t think that you can make a bad drink. You guys are doing some really interesting things.” Lounge chairs replace the area where the live band performs Thursday nights. Two young mothers sit in the corner, accompanied by their two toddlers and two “Springtime in Vienna” drinks resting on the shared end table. Served in a champagne glass, the tangerine-colored drink contains Old Raj, Aperol, Ginger liqueur, B.A. cranberry bitters, grapefruit, prosecco. Just as important as the blend of drink ingredients is the mix of individuals behind the bar. Central to imparting the atmosphere was the deliberate and specific assembly of the bar staff. Autumn developed a close familiarity with the local tastes working in Ithaca for 14 years, and Max, also born and raised locally, provides the bar with a close acquaintance to local drink ingredients, wines and ciders. Mel, whose official title is Bar Manager, offers her experience working eight years within Portland’s vibrant and experimental cocktail–lounge culture. This crew worked together from August up to the bar’s opening in January, crafting a balanced menu that would engage yet challenge local tastes. For Mel, pushing forward the cocktail culture in Ithaca had been a years-long ambition. “I was spoiled in Portland,” she said. “There was a clear divide between your dive bars and your cocktail lounges. Here there are restaurants that appear upscale, but there may not be that level of knowledge.” It wasn’t until more than a year ago that she found what she was looking for. It was another dreary February night in Ithaca, and Mel was tired. Tired from a night working for the past few months at The Height’s Cafe and Grill on the outskirts of town. Tired of another draining, Siberian upstate New York winter, having recently moved from Portland with her boyfriend. And tired of looking for a real cocktail in this small town. She needed a drink. If there was anyone who had caught a “case of the Mondays,” it was Mel, and doubt had spread through all parts of her mind. She wondered if she would ever enjoy living in Ithaca. It seemed so far behind Portland, in terms of culture and cuisine. The food was OK. The local beers and wineries were “decent.” But the cocktails were lacking. Her job at The Heights had reinforced this notion, as well as her uncertainty over her decision to come back to the East, after growing up in Buffalo. She had spent several
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months trying to redo their cocktail menu, which had featured gems like “The Key Lime Martini” and “The Purple Haze.” With drinks like these, who needs dessert? More confounding was the volume of people that consumed these heavily sugared, calorie-laden “vodka nightmares.” She remembered the craft drinks of Portland and, a favorite, the Vieux Carre. The French Quarter inspired whiskey and cognac concoction was perhaps the only remedy for her malaise. “So smooth, so potent, yet I couldn’t find a spot in Ithaca housing both the know-how and the ingredients.” Her roommate and old friend from Portland, who had recently moved back from Europe, had begun working as a chef at a restaurant called Mercato. He had sung the praises of its bartender, Manny, and his cocktail prowess. Mel, again, was doubtful. She found a piece of paper and wrote down the Vieux Carre recipe: ¾ ounces Rye whiskey, ¾ ounces Cognac, ¾ ounces sweet vermouth, one teaspoon Benedictine, 2 dashes Peychaud’s bitters, 2 dashes angostura bitters. She folded up the recipe, put it in her pocket and began down the hill. Mercato was the “last port in the storm;” Mel, a struggling ship. Arriving at Mercato — a narrow Italian restaurant nestled between two larger, older American bar and grilles on The Commons — Mel hung her coat on the hooks just inside the door and took a seat on one of the stools lining the intimate bar counter. Settling into the scene, Mel’s gaze fell upon a wellappointed bar, stocked with varieties of amaros, dark viscous spirits, fresh fruit juices and more than just one type of bitters. “I began to swoon.” Soon after, Manny approached her while hand polishing a glass with a microfiber towel — a sign of true care and consideration among professionals. Subtly fashioning a black, long-sleeve shirt, black pants, black apron and black short, curly hair that descended into a full beard, Manny poured Mel a glass of water and slid her a menu. Mel gently slid it back toward him. “Seems you know what you’d like already.” Gripping the handwritten recipe inside her pocket, Mel asked coyly, “Can you make me a Vieux Carre?” Without hesitation Manny grabbed a glass. “Sure thing!” “You know what it is?” “Of course, it’s on the menu. I better know what it is.” In her haste, expecting to be disappointed, Mel had overlooked the off-white menu. Relieved and amused, Mel relaxed, having finally found her spot. Her drink arrived. Mel “took it in like medicine.” Like Mel, Manny also imported his craft from outside of Ithaca. While growing up in New York City, Manny’s
A COLLEGE STUDENT WALKS INTO A BAR... father worked at the Windows on the World restaurant atop the North Tower of the World Trade Center. After studying history at Cornell and working at local Ithaca restaurants, Manny moved back to the city after college to work in the hospitality business — including the Gramercy Tavern, arguably the most acclaimed venue in Manhattan. Two years ago, after returning to Ithaca, he began working at Mercato, contributing to the restaurant’s cultured reputation and developing a devoted following of regular Monday night customers of his own. “We’re just gonna focus on the one thing and do it really, really well every day. You’ll notice at Mercato, the pastas are made by hand, fresh, every day,” says Manny nodding toward the kitchen, which is viewable from my barstool, as well as from most angles within the restaurants. The chefs have nothing to hide. “All too often, you go into a restaurant and they’re trying to please everyone,” he continues. “If you do a little bit of everything, you’re not going to master each of these things. Instead, just bring an integrity to a few things to make your specialty.” “We’re using the old principles and building on them,” says Manny, while pulling out a mixing glass from the wooden bar, after I asked what drink would be most representative of Mercato’s craft. “So you start with sugar cubes,” Manny speaks softly but with energy, dropping the cubes into the Yarai mixing glass. “And this is an older way of making the Old Fashioned.” Manny reaches back and lifts a burgundy bottle off the shelf behind the bar. “We’re using Trinidadian bitters — though angostura bitters are the most common — and orange bitters.” He first pours a few dashes of Peychaud’s bitters, a gentian-based liquid from New Orleans, over the sugar cubes. And then, a few dashes of the orange bitters — made by Fee Brothers, a 150-year-old company based in Rochester, N.Y. Manny begins lightly mashing the bitters and sugar in the bottom of the glass with a muddler using the handle end to mush together the ingredients. At this moment, Manny measures out about two ounces of Rittenhouse rye whiskey in a silver, metal jigger, adding the 100-proof spirit to the sugar and bitters combination. Alternatively, bourbon or Canadian whiskey can be used in an Old Fashioned. But Manny favors using the rich, woody Rittenhouse taste. “I got into a little debate a while back with a professor here who came into the bar and was like, ‘So how did this European idea get spread around?’” he goes on. “And I was like, ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’ And he was like, ‘Well cocktails, they’re very European. Surely they got started in Paris or London or something.’ I was like, ‘I have to correct you there. If you go to Europe, whether it’s in France or Italy, most of these places would
be horrified that you’re mixing and blending their product. To them, it’s very important that vermouth or Benedictine is just kept pure.’” The affinity for history that originally brought Manny to Ithaca clearly lives on inside of him. With that, Manny strains the drink into an Old Fashioned glass — a short tumbler with a wide brim and thick base — places a single extra large ice cube into the middle, filling the entire center of the glass. Manny then takes an orange peel, bending, twisting and massaging it with his hands delicately above the drink to get the zest out and then does the same with a lemon peel, rimming them both on the glass and laying them crosswise over the ice. Manny then, in a humble finale, places the drink on a coaster and slides it over to me. The Old Fashioned. The most simple, model cocktail. But also a delicate, 10 minute process; an engaging conversation; and a history lesson. A few weeks after just my second visit to Mercato, I was walking through The Commons on a Saturday afternoon and passed Manny. “Nik?! How are things going, man?” There’s more to bartending than what goes into a glass.
Lit
spring 2014
IN WOD WE TRUST
In a floral grey and pink ruffled dress, I walk into an 880-square-foot garage where white tin, vinegary sweat and badass beards dominate. Guess I wore the wrong outfit. CrossFit Pallas is set back from the street, the only indicator for the gym being a tarp banner hung in front and an old weight bench in the corner of the parking lot. Inside, black metal pull-up bars line both sides of the garage. Kettlebells of every size are in the far right corner. Wooden jump boxes are stacked on top of each other four boxes high. Multicolored jump ropes hang tangled from constant use in the far left corner. I try to ignore the small water circles that the leaky, water-damaged ceiling leaves on my dress. The rusted garage door tracks tied with climbing ropes and wooden gymnastic rings make the place look like a torture chamber, while the black scratched padded floor seconds as matting for athletes laying in fetal positions from exhaustion or pain. Thank God they’re moving to a new space soon. A wall is covered with female names and a list of three
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WRITTEN BY MEAGAN MCGINNES PHOTOS BY TUCKER MITCHELL
athletes’ times under each woman. I later discover the times listed are from the three quickest CrossFitters who conquered those ladies — “those ladies” actually being bitchin’ workouts. There are chalkboards with personal records in neon chalk next to the small bell that rings with each accomplishment. Another wall is dedicated to members’ ambitions: What do you want to accomplish before the 2014 open? Sub 6:00 30 Burpee MUFT — Tim 200 lb OH Squat, 225 lb clean — Dere 95#snatch — Midge The CrossFitters’ hands are torn and peeled like the plaster on the walls, which are black with the red logo, a mythical wing with a spear pointing upwards behind it for Pallas, the Titan God of Warcraft. The wing channels Pegasus from Greek mythology symbolizing strong physicality and freedom. This is their Nike Swoosh. “Can I steal some of your pre-workout?” Joe Rogan,
IN WOD WE TRUST the class clown of the gym, yells, decked out in batman apparel: socks, a “Keep calm and call Batman” shirt and a yellow beanie hat to match. Tim, one of the gym owners, gives a nod as he stretches out his right hamstring, touching his hand to his bright green Reebok sneakers, one of his six multicolored “work” shoes. Eamon and Tim stand next to each other, the little and big Irish men. Eamon is 5’7” (and a half), 33 years old, 160 pounds with dark hair and blue eyes. Tim is the baby at 23 but towering at 6’2”. The two are brothers — not the biological kind. Kate sits on the floor, a grey CrossFit beanie pulled down far on her head with her blonde, long hair tucked up in it. “So remember when you trusted me to do workouts by myself? I was doing mobility, and I hit myself in the head with an unloaded barbell.” “When we say ‘head through’ we mean after the bar is overhead,” Tim says. Eamon bursts into laughter. They are each other’s best audience. “I can see the bump through your hat! All the testosterone in this room is coming from Kate’s forehead.” CrossFit is the opposite of Fight Club, the first rule being to only talk about CrossFit. The Spotify playlist “This is going to hurt,” angrier than any music I have listened to before, blasts through ’90s desktop speakers. With that, shirts are off. “The gauntlet has been thrown,” Eamon jokes. It is 10:30 a.m. and today’s workout of the day (WOD) is 14.4, the fourth week of the CrossFit Open competition. The strongest and most agile will make it to the CrossFit Regional Games; others will use this as a competition against last year’s self. Yeah, but tomorrow’s self is going to hate you when you can’t walk in the morning.
The energy in the gym is still filled with intense competition, eyes peering to see how quickly their classmates move, how heavy they can lift and how many toes to bars they can complete. A half hour earlier, she was sprawled on her anatomy books, her face resting on a cross-section of a human leg. Her bed is made; her light is on. Four to five hours of sleep is usual for Rachel Kern, a junior physical therapy major at Ithaca College and the Crossfit athlete of the month. She is bubbly and awake for her “me” time. CrossFit was the only thing that got her through a “dark” summer; it’s the one time during the day she thinks of nothing else, only the WOD, only the toes to bars. Those 50 fucking toes to bars that feel like a punch in the stomach. 14.4 Complete as many rounds as possible in 14 minutes: 60-calorie row 50 toes-to-bars 40 wall-ball shots 30 cleans 20 muscle-ups Is it possible to get through more than one round without puking?
Two minutes in. Please don’t let them puke.
Blood rushes to Tim’s face, spreading to a ruddy complexion. His eyes are focused as a bead of sweat forms at his temple. “Tim always has something to prove.” This year especially, he feels a pit of fire in his stomach; it burns in every muscle that flexes in the traps of his back, with each row of his erg. “You are DNF for the weekend.” Did not finish. It plays on repeat in his head. “I fucked up as big as I could have fucked up this weekend.”
Lit
spring 2014
IN WOD WE TRUST In 2013, Tim knew the competition would be tight, with 6,000 male CrossFitters in the northeast region competing in the CrossFit Open. But as No. 52, he received his golden ticket to the small town of Canton, MA: the home of Reebok International Headquarters and the regional competition. The arena is a concrete field surrounded by reflective glass. The sun is bright on May 18, a perfect 75 degrees. Walking into the arena, Tim passes the athlete’s village, a giant tent with resting chairs, ice baths, chiropractors, massage therapists and anxious athletes pacing back and forth. A long table is off to the side filled with Paleo goodies: peppered steak and chicken; Brussels sprouts cooked with bacon and balsamic vinegar; broccoli-and-cauliflower stir fry; and baked sweet potatoes — CrossFit athletes can’t live without that shit. Past the village is an outdoor track surrounded by commercially green grass. The 10,000 square feet workout area is the main attraction, with pull up bars, athlete mats and a warm-up section. Thousands of spectators in the bleachers gaze at the athletes displayed on stands as if they were a parade of “Strong Men” from the Coney Island freak show. Tim is alone. He pulls out his smartphone and immediately texts Caitlin, Eamon and Stephen. Eamon is currently acting as the best man at his brother’s wedding; Tim’s girlfriend Caitlin is getting her doctorate degree in physical therapy in Philadelphia; his coach Stephen is at home in Seattle. His parents are in the stands, blending into the sea of eyes that will soon be focused on him. Get me out of my head. Shit. The first event is a benchmark warm up, the backbreaker named Jackie, a 1,000-meter row, 50 thrusters with the barbell and 30 pull-ups. Tim PRs by 12 seconds, finishing 30 out of 48 guys. Eh, not the best, but I can’t complain. An ache from the row begins to spread through his lower back. It’s no big deal. Tim steps back on the arena, warming up for overhead squats, the strength event. He flattens his back and bends his knees, sits back in a perfect form of a deep squat and then stands to lift the bar over his head, hitting 255 for the opening weight for three reps. Cool. Tim walks to the registration table, handing the toned woman in Reebok apparel his card. “You have to name your starting weight so they can load it,” she said. “Um 225.” Wait. 225, 255? 225? 255? You are a bigger, stronger athlete. You gotta take a fucking risk. Tim writes a 2 [space] 5 on the card. He stares. Five minutes pass. “Gotta go for it, 255.” There are 45 seconds left. He cleaned the barbell, put it over his shoulders, and locked it overhead. One rep.
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Two reps. His shoulder stability shakes. He loses it. He drops it. Twenty seconds left. I just fucked up so big. The barbell clanks against the floor, the sound of a third rep not completed. Fuck, that was the biggest blunder I’ve ever had. Tim falls to the floor, slamming the ground with his fist. “You have a minute to get to the muscle ups,” a judge says as she approaches him, dropping down to her knee. “But don’t the rules say I’m out for the weekend if I don’t hit the three reps at my opening weight?” “The judge will notify you after, c’mon go finish the workout.” Anger pulsing through his veins, he pulls himself up on the hanging rings. This fucking sucks … 24, 25, 26. The head judge confirms that Tim is DNF for the weekend. He lays in the grass on his back, pulling violently at his hair. He hurriedly hits Caitlin’s speed dial. The 220-pound athlete begins shedding tears. The rest of the day is a blur. At 2 a.m., Tim is four cups of coffee in, with a travel mug in the cup holder beside him. His head pounds, a combination of hangover, tension and exhaustion. He is on his way to Philadelphia from Boston, the silver lining of the heartbreak. It was a blessing in disguise. He focuses intently on the hundreds of miles ahead. His eyes are as red as his beard. DNF. DNF. At 8:45 a.m., Tim, dressed in a purple polo tucked into dress pants, takes a seat next to Caitlin’s sister with a bouquet of yellow roses in hand, the sweet floral smell swirls through the breeze. As Caitlin steps on to the stage in a black cap and gown, her strawberry blonde hair slightly curled, Tim smiles for the first time in over 16 hours. A blessing in disguise. “Focus.” Stay in the now. This year is different. Tim’s Pallas logo tattoo is in all of its glory, a work of art on defined abdominal muscles. The word “Risk” spirals out of a phoenix feather that is incorporated into the Pegasus wing. Winners take risks and last year that risk bit me in the ass. He won’t be content yet. The Phoenix must burn to emerge. He brings both toes to the pull up bar in a fluid motion, tapping both feet to the mark. He looks like a regional athlete in the making. Tim then moves on to wall balls, throwing a weighted ball to a target and then catching it in a deep squat. Not my favorite movement since my last workout I got a wall ball to my face. Caitlin walks over to me, sitting on a wooden box, sporting the gym apparel — a black zip up with the Pal-
IN WOD WE TRUST
“
Winners take risks and last year that risk bit me in the ass. the phoenix must burn to emerge. – Tim
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las logo in red lettering. “So, are you joining yet? Have you drank the Kool-Aid?” But Kool Aid isn’t Paleo … Tim breathes heavily, his sweat now a slick layer all over his body. Tim digs deep to finish his cleans and is now jumping to the rings, his body in a perfect kipping motion. The buzzer goes off. Seventeen muscle ups. Tim has set the bar for Eamon, their competition with each other a main motivation for every vomit inducing WOD. Eamon’s shirt is off. He sits on the erg, rocking back and forth on his heels, fidgeting with his fingers before interlacing them. “You ready?” Emi, his wife, asks, wearing a bright purple “WODkilla” tank. She slips behind him and kisses his cheek. They are testing at the same time; she shakes the tension out of her body and goes to sit at her erg. The row begins. Eamon’s pecs twitch with every pull back; his eyes get wider throughout the workout, sticking out his tongue in concentration. His chest is drenched with sweat. He hates rowing. It looks so easy, but I did not have that flow … or that form … or that speed … I hate rowing. Chris, a fellow coach, is leaning close into Eamon, counting. “Last pull.” Eamon pushes through sets of eight for the toe to bars, using a box to jump to the bar. Emi also needs a boost to get to the bar, using 5-stacked weights, swinging her toes to the bar in a fluid motion until she gets a few sets in. She then struggles to get both feet together to the bar. I try to cheer her on with my gaze. “You know what’s the best part of this workout? Everything but toe to bars,” Tim jokes. Emmi smirks. Eamon has moved on to cleans, his intense fatigue showing through his eyes, completely drained. He bends over breathing heavily. “Come on this split matters, pick up the bar,” Chris spits at Eamon. Tim moves from his corner where he has been silently motivating, intently watching Eamon. He kneels in front of him. “Come on bud, let’s do this,” a soft and forceful push that brings life back to Eamon’s eyes. Eamon, bent over with the barbell under his knees, drives his heels into the ground, causing an explosion from his hips as he brings them forward to an extended position. His shoulders shrug, his arms flip under and he catches the bar in a racked position. A few weeks ago this space was filled with beer, chili and laughter rather than sweat, pain and groans
Lit
spring 2014
IN WOD WE TRUST of exhaustion. The WOD of the 6:30 p.m. Friday class has an audience. CrossFitters from all classes squished to the walls, hugging 12 packs of India Pale Ale beer and crockpots of chili close to their toned bodies, as if cherishing the anticipation of the cheat food feast. Hands of little children are gripped tightly by members Danny and Emily Doyle, keeping them away from the Olympic lifts. The buzzer goes off and jump boxes now double as tables for crock pots, stacks of weights, are transformed into jungle gyms for the little girl with pigtails; pull-up bars become makeshift bottle openers. Eamon hops onto a box, instantly breaking the chatter about CrossFit, what else? “OK guys! Welcome to our own Chili Fest. Take a cup and put some chili in your cup and judge it!” “Yeah. Be all judgy,” Tim added. There are 14 chilis, many choosing to abide by the strict Paleo hunter gatherer diet (Paleo: yes to eggs, almonds and meats; no to sugars, grains or any of my favorite foods). All are delicious, some sinful in the CrossFit world, but there is only one winner: a bacon-choco chili. Lisa’s chocolate chip cookies and brownies though… Rachel has two of each. “I haven’t had a brownie in months!” As the cakey, fudgy chocolate smudges her hands, she licks the chocolate off her thumb, savoring the last bit of her treat. I sneak a second brownie too. Lisa writes down the recipe for me. It is made with avocados? As the night of eating comes to an end, the pots unplugged and spooned clean, Joe Rogan busts in the door in typical Joe Rogan style. “YEAH BUDDY, where’s that chili!” Chili is the farthest thing from Eamon’s mind during 14.4. Next, muscle ups. His rhythm is good, three at a time. Fatigue takes over quickly. His grip is gone. His stomach has to be cramping by this point. “Get three more before 12.” Chris is in his face again. “Dig deep. Let’s go.” Eamon is gasping; he turns to face the wall, recollecting. “Don’t walk away! Get back here right now.” Chris is a scolding mother, but he knows how badly Eamon wants this, even if he is blinded by sweat stinging his eyes and pain ablaze in his core. Eamon goes for one more with 10 seconds left on the clock. His arms buckle. Buzzer. “FUCK. DAMN IT.” He storms outside, steam immediately radiating off his blistering body in the cold air. There is heaviness in the room. But even with the buzzer, Emi continues her workout with relentless determination. It is a silent determination all of the CrossFitters seem to have, putting themselves through hell and back.
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“I think we all are a little masochistic,” Tim says. “We’re like, ‘This sucks, let’s do it again.’” I guess I am a bit masochistic. WOD: 10 push press 10 dead lifts 10 box jump As many reps as possible in a 10 minute cap Shit. Chris runs the 7 a.m. class on a Thursday morning. I keep on my sweatshirt, still shocked from leaving the warmth of my bed. We complete the warm up, a workout in itself, and have 20 minutes to get five reps of our max weight on the bar doing straight push presses. Chris comes over with a white PVC pipe. “So, let’s go over technique. Let the bar rest over your collarbone. Take a breath, and as you push up, you want a straight line, so don’t move the bar around your head, move your head out of the way. Drop it back down, but use that force to bring it back up quickly. It’s supposed to be aggressive.” I try with the PVC pipe first. “Nice!” “Now let’s go over box jumps.” I have never done a box jump before. Ever. In fact, I rarely jump at all, but there it is, 20 inches high. “I have a white girl jump. I’m just warning ya.” “Well that’s why we are practicing now,” Chris said. “So get a good push off the ground with your feet, but use your arms at the same time in order to get yourself up there.” I look at the box. Two minutes go by. I glance at Chris, hoping my deer-in-headlights look will make him give me a smaller box. Nope. So I jump. My toes land on the edge of the wood, for a brief second I am hopeful until … fuck. Chris leaves me to practice. A member of the 6 a.m. class is suddenly standing next to me. I’ve watched him workout before; his back broad with years of lifting. “Aim here” he points to a knot in the grain of wood, about four inches in from the side. “If you land your feet here, then you’ll get it and be able to stand. You got this, give it a jump,” he encourages with his hopeful blue eyes. I jump again and land strong on my box. I am sure my face looks like a kid who rode without training wheels for the first time. “YEAHH, THERE YOU GO!” He flips the box to the higher side. “OK now try that.” Chris has now made his way over to watch me through this higher jump. My chest tightens. “This is all about getting you out of your comfort zone.” I jump again and land. The Kool-Aid tastes sweet, like victory, and it gets sweeter. I trade in my pink and grey, my floral and ruffles for black and red, for a wing and spear.
thanks for reading
Lit spring 2014
LIT SPRING 2014